Fold
by Anamarie Chambers
Summary: Life's been handing him nothing but lemons. And while Logan's job offer is anything but lemonade, after a little coaxing, Remy decides to take him up on it. Besides, it might give him some time to consider his relationship with a certain southern belle. And, anyways, doesn't absence always make the heart grow fonder? Or will Remy discover that it's time to cash out?
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters or this universe.

Chapter 1

_**Are you gone and on to someone new?**_

**The Foo Fighters, Best of You**

The bar was one of those hole-in-the-wall types, a crumbling brick building with neon signs filling both of its dirty windows. The interior was just as rugged. Sitting immediately to the left, and having seen better days, was the bar. It was surrounded by backless stools, some which rocked precariously back and forth, teetering their occupants without the added aid of alcohol. The counter was dull, uneven with a chipped and peeling finish. Behind it, the bartender was large and hairy. Dark chops ran down his jaw stopping halfway to his chin. Bushy eyebrows raised over dull brown eyes and accompanied a snarl with every order.

Along the wall across from the bar were several booths. Each was dimly lit, the overhead lights not quite reaching through the darkness; instead, they merely dissipated it, thinning it into a dismal gray that settled over and around each separate space. They were perfect for less-than desirables with less than desirable business. The shadows gave anonymity; a necessary evil in his chosen line of work.

This was not his favorite place. He preferred the hideaway of a jazz club where the dark was accompanied by the sweet slide of a trombone, and the only things chipped or peeling were the fingernails of a beautiful woman as she traced a tantalizing trail down his jawline. But he was working...sort of. Well, working at losing himself anyway; hence, the need for anonymity.

Remy LeBeau leaned back into his booth, willing his body to move as far away from the thin rays of the overhead bulbs as he could. He was on his second bourbon on the rocks when the other side of his booth creaked.

He didn't bother to look up, just continued to dismally sip at his drink. Setting the glass down with a clink, he swiped at the condensation with a lazy thumb. He swallowed, his tongue warm and swollen from the alcohol before finally addressing his intruder.

"Can I help you?" There was a twist to his words, an accent dipped in swirls of purple, green, and gold.

The man opposite him, leaned back, enjoyed a tug on his beer bottle before licking his lips and tipping the long-neck toward the younger man. "Been lookin' fer you." He took another swig and set the bottle on the table. Leaning in conspiratorially, he added, "You can be a hard man to track."

Fiery eyes raised, cut through the shadows, and fixed themselves on the older man. A slide of his mouth left him grinning humorlessly, "'Parently not hard enough."

The second man chuckled, then nursed his beer before tilting his chin to regard his companion. "Less cologne next time." This earned him a similar chuckle and he continued, "Things have been..._strained..._lately. I ain't gonna pretend any different. But, you and me, Gambit, we're solid right now."

The younger man accepted that, dipping his head in an affirmative nod before throwing back the rest of his bourbon. He scowled, the liquid scalding his throat despite his propensity for it. He didn't reply and his drinking buddy continued.

"It ain't easy bein' the head master of a school. Looked like cake watching the Professor and Scott," he added under his breath and helped himself to another swig of beer. "I don't like bein' on my best behavior all the time."

Remy chuckled and caught the eye of a withered waitress. He raised his empty glass and she nodded. "Logan, dat makes both o' us." He smiled as a full glass was slid in front of him. "_Merci._" He ran a hand through his brown hair, lifting the ends from where they rubbed against his earlobes. Eying his drinking partner, he raised his glass. "To not bein' a role model...at least for tonight." He swallowed a mouthful and set the glass down.

Logan watched him, assessing him with steel-blue eyes. Remy felt uncomfortable with the scrutiny, but instead, adjusted the length of his body so that he was leaning further back against the wall. The shadows covered his face, made him harder to read. Logan let out an exasperated sigh.

'I'm gonna level with you," he groused, his thumb peeling at the beer's label. "Things have been pretty shitty lately."

That was an understatement. Things had been beyond shitty, and Remy knew it. Firsthand.

Remy was a mutant. His DNA bestowed him with a strange skill-set: he could turn simple, everyday objects into weapons. More than that really, he could turn them into bombs. By simply touching them. Something within him, the funny little chromosome known as the x-gene, gave him the power to disrupt matter on a molecular level. He could feel the hum of electrons as they orbited the nucleus. He was able to scramble that orbit, pulling electrons away or shuffling them in, whatever he needed to do to make the atom volatile, to tip the potential energy into kinetic. The end result was explosive. Literally.

Logan, too was a mutant, with heightened senses and the ability to heal at an increased rate—even those wounds that would be fatal to a normal person. Many years prior, because of his unique healing factor, he had been the victim of an underground government experiment. Adamantium, the strongest metal known, was grafted to his skeleton, giving him unbreakable bones. That experiment made him unstoppable. What made him deadly was that his skeleton held a little extra, a retractable set of bone claws that extended from the top of each hand. The adamantium had adhered itself to those, turning them into blades, three-feet long and sharp as hell.

And Remy and Logan weren't the only ones.

In fact, they belonged to a group known as the X-Men. These mutants dedicated their lives to the belief that those with the x-gene could live peacefully with regular humans. They ran a school to help children with altered DNA learn how to exist in a world where relations between them and their non-powered brethren were...complicated.

Or, at least, they used to.

There had been dissension in the ranks, splitting the team into two different factions. Scott Summers, the school's former headmaster had taken his followers to Utopia, a mutant stronghold. There they honed their powers to prepare for the inevitable World War between the mutants and flat-scans. Logan and Remy defected and went back to teach, believing that children needed to be just that, and not trained as soldiers.

And then there was Rogue.

Remy's on-again, off-again girlfriend. They were currently off, but she believed as he did, that children needed to be in school and protected from the cruelness of the world for as long as they could be. So, she came back with him. That had given him hope, 'course the fact that she had left a boyfriend in Utopia and remained true to him, ripped at it a little.

Logan knew it. Everyone knew it.

Remy chose to pretend to the contrary. Because he still believed that ultimately they would be together. But, truth be told, the longer she held on to that S.O.B., the more he began to doubt.

He cleared his throat and tipped his head at Logan, acknowledging his appraisal of the situation. "Did you t'ink I was under some sort of impression ot'erwise?"

"No," the Canadian admitted, "no, I figure you've been first row for most of it." He took another draw from the bottle before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and coughing. "Here's the deal, Gumbo," he sighed, considering his next words carefully, "I been where you are."

Eyebrows raised over strange eyes—red pupils instead of brown, black sclera instead of white. The only physical betrayal of his mutant stature. The red glowed with frustration. "How you figure?"

"I know what it's like to see the woman you love in the arms of a prick."

"No 'ffense, _homme_, but it ain' even de same t'ing."

Logan was not dissuaded. "I watched Jean and Scott for years. I loved her. And I knew Scott was trouble. I could smell it on him." His hands furled around the neck of his bottle, fingers straining to hold on, to curb the anger that was always so near the surface. "I watched her cry for him, watched him destroy her with his cheatin'. An' I gotta tell you, bub, I don't wish that on anyone." He allowed a small smile before adding, "Not even you."

"Ain't de same t'ing." The slide of his mouth was gone, pulled to a thin line.

"Oh, yeah?" Logan questioned, "I ain't exactly seen her hanging all over you. But she's sure got an eye on that phone."

Remy blew out a breath, popped his neck, but didn't say anything. The slam of the bourbon down his throat spoke volumes.

"She's replaced you. Moved on. You need to do the same."

"Listen, _homme_, you and Jean didn't exist. Ya'll were never together. Me an' Rogue? We was happy. Had us a little house. Bein' _normal._ An' den de X-Men show back up, pullin' us back into de life." He dropped his gaze, twirled the ice in his glass. "Den I went an' messed it up worse."

The older man stared at him for a moment, watching the clench of his jaw, the unsteadiness of his breath. Logan had finally started to wear away at the nerve. He tipped back his bottle, liquid courage for his next words. "An' you're just gonna keep makin' it worse."

Remy's eyes narrowed. His voice was low, anger beginning to infiltrate the southern cadence of his tone. "I t'ink you need t' shut yo' mouth."

"'Magneto's building himself up in her memory, makin' her just think about how _wonderful_," he choked on the word, "he is. You? You're there everyday. She hasn't had a chance to miss you. She just gets to remember everything you done, wrong or right, because every time she sees you, she sees all o' you."

"But I'm dere. I'm de one what's got her back. I'm de one she turns to!"

"You're just a Magneto-substitute. You do all the work; he gets all the rewards."

He was shaking now, his hands grappling the table in front of him. Purple electricity flickered out from his fingers, leaking on to the table just beyond his grip, but never moving more than an inch from his touch. He was struggling for control—anger swelled inside of him, his power screamed to be released. His eyes pulsated, maddening swirls of red and blood-red focused on Logan's cool blue gaze.

Logan watched him, ran his tongue over his teeth before swallowing. "And bub, I _have_ been there." He dropped his vision to rest on the brown bottle in his hands and mumbled, "Love's fer the bleedin' birds." He raised his hand, signaled to the waitress that he needed another bottle before looking once again at Remy. "I need you to take a mission."

A strangled half-laugh, then, "Yeah, I'm real anxious t' help you out right now."

"Look, Gumbo, I get where you're at. Better than most. An' I'm tellin' you that it ain't gonna get any better. So you can do one of two things: stick around and get piss-drunk every night 'cause seein' her in love with Magneto makes you want to set yourself on fire. Or, move forward. Quit standin' still and hopin' she'll notice you again. Because maybe she will, but maybe she won't. Either way, you got to keep movin'."

"Bite me."

He grinned, his teeth elongated by the thin darkness and dappled light of the bar. He looked every bit the Wolverine. Reaching into his leather jacket, he pulled a crumpled manilla folder from its interior pocket. Smoothing it out on the table, he pushed it toward Remy. "Something's been brought to my attention."

"Not int'rested."

"Not asking." He flipped it open. A white circle with a black eagle holding a stars and stripes banner was stamped on the first page.

Remy's eyebrows raised. "This one of your Avengers' jobs? Cain't believe S.H.E.I.L.D. just let you waltz outta headquarters with one of their files."

When he wasn't performing his headmaster duties at the Jean Grey School for Higher Learning, Logan moonlighted with the Avengers, a super-hero team governed by the agency known by the acronym S.H.E.I.L.D., Supreme Headquarters International Espionage Law-enforcement Division. They were the ones in control whenever the world found itself in a less than diplomatic, diplomatic situation. And they weren't exactly known for sharing information.

Logan shrugged. "What they don't know..." He tapped a finger on the file. "This is one of those situations where the right thing to do isn't black and white."

"I ain' doin' it, _mon ami_."

"See, the Avengers' hands are tied. Or I'd do it myself. This mission requires someone with the ability to be a shadow. To get in and stay in without calling a lot of attention to himself." He leveled his gaze, blue eyes staring unblinkingly into Remy's red ones. "It's military."

"You gittin' so old you're ears quit workin'? I ain't takin' de job. Nothin' you say-"

"Mutant armies."

Remy slammed his mouth shut and stared with wide eyes.

Logan exhaled heavily, flexed his hands over the file. "The government has sanctioned mutant armies."

"How's dat even possible?"

"With less than two hundred mutants left in the entire world? You're guess is as good as mine." He pushed the folder toward Remy. "But it's all there. Complete with a list of powers in each special team. And they got them doin' some shit jobs. All I wanna know is how and why. What's it gonna mean for us?"

"An' you wan' me to what? Sign right up?"

Logan slammed his fist on the tabletop. It shook beneath his strength; the bartender looked up from behind the bar. He leaned in, his hand shooting out and grasping the collar of Remy's trench coat. "This ain't no joke! This is something serious. I can smell it a mile away. And you can either help me or sit and cry in your drink!"

Remy's eyes flashed. His handsome face screwed up into a sneer. "Fuck you. Sittin' here tryin' t' give me relationship advice when you and Jean never even had one. Tryin' to play me into doin' your dirty work. I'm my own man; I make my own choices! An' I'll be damned if I'm gonna let you screw up what I've been workin' for!"

Logan snarled, shoving him back into the booth. "Y'know what, Gambit? I'm beginning to see why she picked Magneto."

A slow grin pulled across his face; it was slow, deliberate, and full of animosity. He grabbed his glass, swallowing the last of the amber liquid, before setting it on top of the file. "I'll get de tab, _mon ami_." Standing, he moved to the bar, and dropped a wad of cash on the counter. "See you at work." He flipped the collar of his coat up before pushing through the front door.

Logan shook his head and rubbed a tired hand down his face. The meeting had not gone the way he had hoped. He threw back the rest of his beer before setting it back down and wiping his mouth with his hand. He absently pushed Remy's glass off the file and wiped the water ring from its cover. Cramming it back into his pocket, his hand stilled. He cocked his head to one side, certain he had heard something. He heard it again. A popping, hissing sound met his ears. Confused, he glanced around the bar before his eyes fell on his table. Remy's glass was shaking with purple electricity. The blast threw him backwards.

Coughing, he shook cushion foam out of his face and searched the bar. No one seemed hurt. The explosion had been loud, but was only strong enough to reach him. However, now the patrons were all staring down at him with dubious expressions on their faces. So much for stealth.

Twisting out of the pile of his side of the booth, Logan decided to beat it out of there. Not that he couldn't take on the humans; he just wasn't up for it tonight. Besides, his little heart to heart with Remy had backfired. Literally. And if he couldn't get Remy on board with his reconnaissance mission, he was going to have to come up with a new plan. Because, as much as he hated to admit it, this was one of those times when he needed someone like Remy. And who was better than Gambit at lurking in the shadows?

X

"Hey sugah."

He smiled at the way her voice purred in his ear. Pulling back, he found her eyes instantly. Green and glowing, they stared back at him, mirroring the lust he knew shone within his own. He stilled, his body covering hers, skin on top of glorious skin, and captured her lips with his own. She snaked her arms around his neck, her fingers knotting through the hair at the base of his skull. _Dieu_, he could never get enough of her, never fill the ache burning within him whenever she was near. This was as close as he could get, consuming her kisses, pulling her to him until their bodies were like one.

It still wasn't enough.

He needed her. And he told her so. Whispering kisses down her jaw and neck until he buried his face there and pushed her further into the bed. He gasped, wrapped his arms around her waist and grinned as she sighed beneath him. His gaze flickered to her face; her eyes were half-closed, and a satisfied smile pulled at the ends of her mouth. He couldn't stop the grin from smoothing across his face.

He leaned his chin against his palm, his elbow on the pillow near her head. His free hand pushed her white bangs back from her forehead; his smile deepened at the perspiration along her hairline. She opened one eye and studied him.

"Yes?" It was breathless.

He couldn't help it; he kissed her. Pulling back, he winked. "Did y' git it?"

She groaned, releasing the hold she had on his derriere and covering her eyes with her arm. "Remy!"

He licked his lips, his eyes flashing playfully. "Jus' makin' sure." He tipped his head toward her own.

"Remy!" This time her words were strangled and she shoved him back with fear in her beautiful eyes.

He looked at her. She was staring at him, trepidation shaking her features and tears streaming down her face.

"Oh, gawd, Remy, what did you do?"

The turmoil in her voice stabbed at his heart and he stood before her, palms up and open and begged for her to please stop crying. "Rogue, wha' you mean?" And he saw it. His breath died in his lungs. "Oh, gawd, no-" They were black—his hands, his skin. Black as Death. And now Rogue was gone and he was staring into a mirror—his hair, stark white and his skin the color of a night sky.

And he was Death.

The Death of himself. Of his love.

And suddenly, he was himself again. His body back to normal, his skin sun-kissed and supple. And he ran, ran all over, searching, calling. "Rogue! I'm here, _cher__é! _Oh, _Dieu_! I'm here!" His eyes, glistening with tears, searched the shadows, the light, everywhere. But he couldn't find her.

She was gone.

And then...something caught his eye.

A rustling flash of red and purple.

And he made himself watch. Made himself witness the cost of his decisions, of his sins. He forced his eyes to stay open against the sting of tears. Forced his lungs to breathe, his heart to beat. He clenched his fists, curling his fingers into his palms, pressing them into his sides.

And he watched.

He watched as Rogue opened her lust-filled eyes. Watched as they rolled closed, her lips opening into a soft moan. Watched as she arched her back, grinding her body into the skin above her.

Skin that didn't belong to him.

X

He awoke with a start.

He gasped for air, pulling it in short, choppy breaths as he searched the room around him. Hands swept wisps of brown from his eyes before fisting the cotton wound about his legs. He kicked at it, struggling against its hold. Sweat glistened against his body, catching the moonlight from his apartment window. Freeing himself, Remy collapsed against his bed's headboard and buried his face in his hands.

It was a dream. It was just a dream. But it didn't matter, he decided, his hand curling over his bare chest, over his heart, because it was a truth. Hell, it was _the_ truth. He'd been happy. So happy. When she was in his arms, when their eyes focused and unfocused on each other, he'd been a better man. Her love. And in one moment...one heartbeat...he'd thrown it all away in some damned moment of self-righteousness.

Instead of listening to his heart, to her—he listened to his ego. He believed he could beat the demon, cancel out its apocalyptic tendencies by his sheer will. He believed he could deal with the devil and come out unscathed.

He believed wrong.

Instead he became an abomination. Twisted and ugly and out of control, he turned on his teammates, on Rogue, because he wasn't strong enough. The lure of evil, of darkness, pulled at him, devouring those tendencies within his own soul and growing inside of him until the man that he was could no longer be seen. But even through that, with the blackness of his soul etched upon his skin, she called to him, begged him to remember their love, their _need_ for each other. The sweet lilt of her voice awakened the humanity within him and he struggled against the creature he had become. But the evil within was too much and it broke through his goodness, crashing down upon him and pulling him back under.

Twice he tried to kill her.

Not him. Not her Remy, but the creature he had become.

But the goodness, the love, was still there fighting, freeing itself from the grapples of his unfortunate deed until, finally, he could feel himself inside once again.

By then, he secured other means of work, afraid that the X-Men, that Rogue, would be unwilling to accept his apologies. That had been yet another mistake, but he had been under no false pretenses with that one.

But when he saw her again, he knew he had to go back.

Even if she decided she didn't want him. Even if she smashed in his face. He had to tell her.

She saved him.

Now, as he lay soaking sweat and shaking from yet another nightmare, he realized the irony of his dilemma. She was no longer his saving grace. In fact, she was a nail in his coffin. Figuratively, of course. But each time he saw her with Magneto, each time images of the two of them crept into his consciousness...each time she turned _from_ him, instead of _to_ him...a little part of him died.

He just hoped it wasn't the good part.

He groaned, tipping his head to catch a glimpse at his alarm clock. Two a.m. He ran a hand down his face, swiping away the nightmare still fresh in his mind, and rolled himself out of the bed. He moved like a ghost—down the hall and into the kitchen without even a whisper of movement. He pulled a glass from a cabinet and orange juice from the fridge. The carton was nearly empty; he shrugged, squeezed the top open, and took a long draw. His trench coat was slung over the back of a chair. He pulled a set of folded pages from an interior pocket before sliding in to sit at the kitchen table. He didn't bother with turning on lights; his eyes, dark and frightening as they may be, were not without their advantages. One of which being that he could see in the dark. Very well. Smoothing the pages out on the table, he sighed at the S.H.E.I.L.D insignia staring up at him.

Okay, so maybe he was _intrigued_. He had a right to be, after all. School teaching certainly wasn't the career path on which he'd always seen himself. And he hadn't been on an individual mission since rejoining the team.

Besides, after that dream, he wasn't so sure Logan was wrong about him needing to move. Not move on. But stayin' in one place, stagnate, was only going to make him crazy.

He flipped the top page and smiled at the neatly typed intel beneath it.

It really had been too easy. While Remy threw back that last mouthful of bourbon, Logan's attention had been on his face, not on his free hand. He'd slipped the papers from their folder and stuffed them in his coat all before slamming his glass down on top. Kinetically charging the glass had been as much a ruse to keep Logan from noticing the weight difference as it was payback for sticking his nose where it wasn't wanted. Okay, maybe nearly as much.

He skimmed the report, his fingers twitching with nervous energy. Finishing it, he leaned back in his chair and took another swig out of the carton.

Logan was right, he admitted, something was wrong. First of all, how was the government creating a mutant army corp when ninety-nine percent of the world's mutant population had their powers deactivated? Granted the mass de-powering hadn't been their choice, but the work of a reality-warping mutant called the Scarlet Witch. He didn't completely blame her, he thought idly as he flipped through the report, sometimes mutants could ruin a party real quick. But that was neither here nor there, because either way mutant numbers had dwindled down to a mere hundred or so.

So how was the government able to fill ranks in a mutant army? 'Course the report didn't go into that.

He sighed and rolled his shoulders to release the tension building in them.

So the government got its hands on a bunch of mutants and shoved them in the military? Fine, he'd leave it at that for the time being, even though he knew better. But, if that were the case, then it, of course, posed a new question entirely: What kind of treatment were they receiving? He needed to be sure that the government was not mistreating, misusing, or misrepresenting the mutants in their service. Regardless, he knew there was only one way to figure out what was really happening.

He chewed on his lip. But what about Rogue? Logan would surely want him well on his way tonight. He might not have a chance to tell her...

His dream, or nightmare, it depended on the half in question, came freely to his mind. The tender touches, the breathy sighs...and then, the other half reared its ugliness. She was not his anymore. At least, not to her. A slow, familiar ache, dull and throbbing, began to beat within his chest. He crushed his palm over it, willing his heart to continue, to not drown in the taunts of his dreams or nightmares.

He could do this mission. He could win back a little bit more of his humanity. Maybe, maybe if he really tried, he could continue to vanquish the dragon in his soul, to keep the fires smoldered. Maybe he could find more of himself in the good of his actions.

He didn't want to lose her, but, he reasoned, he couldn't lose himself. Not again.

Licking his lips, he dug into another pocket. Pulling out a phone, he slid his finger across its top, waking it from its technological slumber. "Logan," and the little screen lit itself up with the Canadian's number and began to ring.

The answer was brisk, tempered by time and regularity. Even at two-thirty in the morning. "Yeah?"

He took a deep breath. "Been doin' some light readin'."

"What?" There was a bed creaking and the sound of things being shuffled around. Remy waited for the hiss and the curse, "Damn you, you Cajun. You lifted it!"

He pushed the comment aside with a wave of his hand before continuing. "You're an easy mark. But, uh, an' it _pains_ me t' say dis, I t'ink you might be right. The report...it doesn't add up."

"Yeah, right?" Logan's voice betrayed his eagerness to have someone see what he had sensed. "What mutants would sign up for that? Especially with the way the government's been."

"I t'ink maybe I will take a look into it." Rogue's lips against Magneto's came to his mind and he added, "Might do me some good."

Logan didn't respond; Remy appreciated that.

"When do you want me to go?"

"ASAP. The sooner we figure out what's really going on, the better."

"You'll have to find someone t' cover my classes."

"Consider it done." Then came the question neither man really wanted to ask. "What about Rogue, Gumbo?"

Remy considered it for a second. "If I'm leaving right away, she'll be sleeping. She don' take it too kindly when someone wakes her up in the middle of the night. I'll just contact her later on, let her know what's-"

"I'd like to keep this mission just between us. The less people who know about it, the less the chance of S.H.E.I.L.D. findin' out. Remember, I didn't exactly ask fer permission."

"Sometimes it's jus' easier t' ask for forgiveness." He swallowed the bitter taste of his words.

"I'll tell Rogue that you're taking care of something fer me. That way it's just our butts on the line."

"Fine." Anxiety swelled in his chest. Remy swallowed back a sense of foreboding. "But you will tell her?"

"I told you, we're solid right now."

"Yeah, well, you said some ot'er t'ings as well."

"Friendly advice."

"_Unwanted_ advice."

The phone was silent on both ends. One man quiet out of respect and pity; the other, from the uncertainty of his choices. Then...

"Well, be seein' you, Gumbo. I'll want daily updates on your status."

"Yeah, I'll be sure t' tweet every hour."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

_**Now you're just somebody that I used to know**_

**Gotye, Somebody I Used to Know**

She sighed and threw another sweater on her bed. Friday night and here she was cleaning out her winter clothes. The pile swallowed her bed. Well, she thought, sticking out her chin in a much more defiant gesture than she actually felt, it was something that had to be done. After all, being a mutant super-hero/teacher wasn't all aliens trying to conquer the world. No, sometimes it was just downright _normal_. Or, some variant thereof.

Rogue hadn't felt normal for quite some time.

Between just being a mutant and all of the crap the X-Men seemed to attract, she'd grown pretty accustomed to being abnormal. It was something she had to deal with, so she did. But lately, since becoming Legacy... Well, she didn't rightly know.

Casting a sideways glance at her nightstand, she saw her cellphone. Its cool black casing gleamed under the lamplight and taunted her with its indifference. She licked her lips and pressed them into a thin line. Palming it in a sudden spring to action, she squeezed her eyes shut. She brushed her fingers across the screen, and stared. No missed calls. No voicemail. No nothing. In the back of her mind she could hear Rachel Summers, the school's resident telepath, telling her that the Dark Ages were over and that it wasn't unheard of for the woman to call. She chewed her lip; maybe she should. Eric would probably take it as a good sign since she'd been the one to leave Utopia. But somewhere farther back, swirling within the depths, was another voice twanging southern and spittin' fire. And she could see hands on hips and brows low over eyes. "Don' yah _dare_, gal! Don' you call that sorry excuse for—when Ah get outta here, Ah'm gonna kick you clean to next year!"

She deflated, air blowing the white forelocks of her hair off of her forehead. Sliding the phone back into its place, she shook her head. That had been happening a lot lately. The voice. It was familiar, tugging at the corners of her mind until she could feel a strange ripple run through. It was pushing at Legacy, trying to shove her away, trying to make her obsolete. It took all of Rogue's concentration to keep that voice at bay. And she didn't understand from where it could be coming.

Raking hands through the rest of her hair—long, auburn tresses—she gathered it into a ponytail and tied it behind her head before turning back to the boringly daunting task of weatherizing her wardrobe. She pulled at the bottom drawer and clicked her tongue when she found that it was stuck. Sitting on the floor, she put her feet on either side of the drawer and tugged. Off-track, that's what it was. It slid open a tiny amount and she peered into it. The sliver of space did little to enlighten her to its contents. Groaning, she curled her fingers over the lip of the drawer and pulled with all her might. The wood moaned, protesting its trackless journey, but fell with a thud to the floor.

It was a trench coat. She fingered the black material, a strange feeling coming over her. Which was illogical, she scolded herself. Why would a jacket invoke memories? Pulling it out of the drawer, she tried it on and checked her mirror. She rolled her eyes and felt her lips twist up. Damn it if she didn't remind herself of Gambit. Stooping back down, she investigated the next item in her drawer. A sheer pink negligee. She swallowed, scooped the intimate object from the drawer's recesses and stared at it for a second before setting it on the carpet beside her. She pulled out other things: a dried red rose, a book of poems, a blanket, and a queen of hearts.

There was something important about them, but, and she knew it sounded preposterous, but lately she couldn't remember things. Well, she could—everything that happened during and after Legacy, and some things from before. But many things from that time in her life before she became Legacy seemed disconnected from her. Hazy. It was the little things, the things that made up a person. The things everyone desperately wanted to remember or cling to when times got rough. Whenever she came across things like that, the ones that had clearly meant something to her before, she often drew a blank. Staring at the pile beside the drawer, she was saddened to find that this was one of those times.

Before she knew what she was doing, before she could think to stop herself, she was smudging tears from her cheeks. And that voice...all twang and fire...was sassin' her again. "When Ah get outta here, yah best be gone!"

She fisted her hair and tugged at it, groaning at the strangeness within her. That voice was going to make her crazy. And yet, there was something about it that offered her solace. It...she couldn't put her finger on it. But it was like the groggy feeling right before really, truly waking up. Pinching the bridge of her nose, she looked down at her strange little pile. She considered throwing everything into a trashbag and shoving it onto a shelf in her closet, but decided against it. Whatever they were, these objects had meant something to her. She couldn't treat them with such insensitivity.

As she started to put them back, something caught her eye. Pushed up against the back of the drawer, its face against the wood, was a photo. She felt her breath catch in her chest. Swallowing, she reached into the drawer and tried to slide the picture up. It was stuck, its edge secured in the joint between the back and the bottom. She considered just yanking it up, but chewed her lip as an image of it tearing in two came right to mind. Shrugging, she smoothed it down, a familiar face smiled back at her. It was her—green eyes glowing, lips parted into a wide, open smile. She squinted at her image, confused by the happiness she saw radiating from her face. Beside her, arm slung across her shoulder, was Gambit. He wasn't looking at the camera, his eyes were on her face, and the wattage of his smile mirrored her own. Brown hair pushed over the top of a red bandanna and stuck out in a myriad of directions. And she blew out an unsteady breath.

He was handsome. She'd give him that.

Scratching her fingers down her arm, her gaze was brought to the trench coat she still wore. The ripple at the edge of her consciousness was beginning again and she steeled herself for-"Remy?" But it didn't come from her mind; it came, instead, from her lips.

That the voice sounded much like the one in her head confused her.

Her eyes were drawn back to the photo of the two of them and the happy smile on her face. And the crinkles edging her eyes. And his arm slung around her shoulders.

She snatched her hand back as if the chromogenic scalded her; it flipped back up, its face burying against the wood frame once again.

She was shaking. Shaking and swiping her hand down her leg, trying to rub out the warmth in her hand. She grappled the items and tossed them helter-skelter into the drawer. Choking on a shallow breath, she yanked at the coat, removing it and shoving the black fabric onto the pile. She palmed her eyes, holding her hands there, hiding herself from her discoveries.

Tears leaked from under her hands, kamikaze drops off her chin.

Presently she peeked above her fingers and stared at the disheveled mess of the drawer. It sat, unmoving, non-threatening on her bedroom floor.

It scared her to death.

It left too many questions.

Screwing up her courage, she knelt beside the drawer, lifted it and pushed it back into her bureau. Letting out a breath, she tugged on its hardware. It pulled easily toward her, allowing her another glance at its disemboweled contents.

Back on track.

And she slammed it with a little more power than necessary.

She ran to her closet and threw the door open with a false gusto. Grabbing her uniform, she tossed it over her shoulder. It landed in a pile on her bed. In a matter of seconds, she had peeled her street-clothes from her body and was zipping the top of her uniform.

She needed to release the fiery pit growing within her stomach. Kicking her door open, she stomped down the hall. She hoped a Danger Room training sequence would fix it, or at the very least, lessen the southern drawl spitting obscenities at her from the back of her mind.

X

Legacy was a part of her now...or was her...or had been her...

It was all very confusing.

Especially for Rogue.

What she knew...or remembered...was that the world, her world, had slipped into an alternate reality. It was remarkably less friendly than the original, and mutants were regularly hunted and executed. It didn't matter if they were two months or two hundred years old; if they were considered "super-human" they were expendable. The lucky ones met a bloody death by firing squad; the unlucky ones...were captured and pumped for information.

A resolute few gathered together to keep the humans at bay and to salvage what little of their lives they had left. Rogue was there—or, rather, Legacy was there. They were in fact, one in the same. But Legacy knew this bloodied and broken world as her home and had no recollection of her true origin. Her job, decreed by the mutant leader, Magneto, was to imprint those mutants around her so that if and when they died, they would not be forgotten. A sort of morbid historian.

He protected her. He protected all mutants. And she harbored a little crush.

Remy was there as well. Infuriatingly handsome, he was sort of her guardian angel, swooping in and rescuing her whenever she was in danger. And there was something there, a pull of some kind. But whether she was pulled to him or he was pulled to her or they were pulled to each other, she didn't know.

She knew that she kissed him.

Their final mission together, the one that would restore their reality, loomed before her as they dangled on a string. She was scared. She was nervous. And he was infuriatingly handsome. So, she kissed him and claimed it was for luck. But deep down, she wasn't sure why.

And there was that crush on Magneto.

Their mission was successful. The world slipped back into its actual time-stream. Everything was back to normal.

But Rogue still had Legacy in her head. Still recalled her emotions. In fact, they seemed to trump her own. And she found herself further confused by her already-strained relationship with Remy and intrigued by the crush she had on Magneto...uh, Eric. The pull from Legacy was too strong, too new, to ignore...and she and Remy had so much history, so much to work through... She decided to avoid reopening old wounds and fell into Eric's open arms.

And she was happy.

Really.

But that voice... The southern-fried temerity argued the point quite well.

There were so many schisms in her memory that she had all but forgotten her relationship with Remy. She remembered big things...Apocalypse, Mr. Sinister, Australia...but not much from before. She remembered being in love, but not how she got there. The little things had fallen through the cracks.

Perhaps that was why that drawer had unnerved her.

She didn't remember any of them. Those things had been precious enough for her to save, and yet, she couldn't recall the meaning of them.

She was considering this as she stood in the shower after a physically exhausting Danger Room run. She tilted her head back, the water pasting her hair down her neck and over her shoulders. She pulled her hands down her face, wiping away the excess water and gathered her hair into a ponytail behind her head before letting it all fall down her back. She rolled her shoulders and stretched her neck. Her fingers crawled up, fingering a thin white line that ran vertically down her chest and skirted alongside her right breast. The water's heat made it glow brilliant against her skin. She chewed the inside of her mouth, her eyes intent upon the scar. She had seen it before, of course, but couldn't quite place it. Not for the first time, she wondered what would have left such a mark upon her body.

Rubbing her hands up and down her face, she took a deep breath. "Ah gotta get some sleep."

X

When the telepathic alert came at eight in the morning, Rogue was in the middle of a tumultuous dream. She was flying around a red light, a beam really, that spread across the ground and shot high into the sky. It reminded her of Cyclops' optic blast, but wider, rawer. She was flying around it, her hands clawing into it like she was trying to tear it away so she could reach its center. And she was certain that was exactly what she was trying to do. There was something within its glow, something that she wanted but couldn't, for the life of her, reach.

"Rogue!" Rachel Summers' voice sliced through the beam.

Rogue flew back, her fingers straining to hold onto the red. They curled through it; she screamed in frustration as she was hurled back into consciousness.

"Rogue?"

Her head throbbed as she blinked blearily in the filtered morning light. Her body was stiff, a sure sign that she hadn't moved all night. Moaning, she rubbed her eyes.

"Wake up, Rogue."

She looked around; no one was there. Telepathy. "Ah'm awake." She said inside her head, hoping Rachel would hear her and stop the intermittent call.

Rachel's voice flooded her brain. "About time. Logan's called a faculty meeting in twenty minutes."

"What? It's Saturday morning."

"Don't shoot the messenger."

"This is ridiculous. Ah'll still be in my pajamas."

"You won't be alone. I'm not moving out of this bed until I absolutely have to."

X

When she padded into the faculty lounge twenty minutes later, she was not in a better mood. Her dream had left her with a hazy feeling of another life and it all made her head swim. She slumped down into a chair; Rachel was on her left, the chair to the right was empty.

"Rough night?" Rachel asked, arching an eyebrow.

"No, Ah was just doing some spring cleaning."

"Still haven't decided to come out of the dark ages and call Eric yourself, huh?"

Rogue's brow furrowed. "Oh," she replied as the meaning of Rachel's words sunk in. "Yeah, no. Somethin' just won't let me do it." She decided to leave out the part where the something was actually a voice in her head. She didn't think that would go over too well. "You seen Remy?"

Impossibly, Rachel's eyebrow raised even higher. "No. I think he stayed at his apartment last night." Her brow furrowed as she watched Rogue's face. "Logan didn't have me contact him."

"Morning." Bobby Drake mumbled, stifling a yawn and scratching his hand down his hip. Grumbling something about Saturdays being sacred, he lowered himself into the chair on Rogue's right side.

Rogue's hand shot out, fingers splayed over the chair's cushion. "Saved."

He quirked a brow. "Uh, Rogue?"

"That's Remy's seat."

Bobby glanced around the room; several people were staring back at him, questioning looks on their faces. He swallowed and fixed Rogue with a confused one of his own. "H-he's not here. All the chairs are full."

She twisted her head, taking in the room around her. Bobby was right; there was no where else to sit. Opening and closing her fingers, she retracted her arm and hugged it to her body.

Bobby eyed her warily as he took the seat. He caught Rachel's eye; she shook her head slightly.

"Good. You're all here." Logan stalked into the room, his boots loud against the tiled floor.

"_Why_ are we all here?" Bobby whined. "Saturday, Logan. My one day to sleep in."

He was ignored. "I got a last minute faculty assignment to share with you." He thrust a thumb over his shoulder. A woman with dark skin and braided hair emerged from behind him. He continued, "Most of you know Cecilia." She pursed her lips and managed a halfhearted wave. "She'll be taking over the health class."

"But that's Remy's class!" Rogue's voice brought everyone's eyes to her.

Logan's grin was downright spooky. "Yeah, it was, but he's gone."

She shook her head, green eyes creased with concern. "What? He wouldn't just..."

"He's on a mission."

The room seemed to suck in a breath; bodies tensed instinctively.

Sam Guthrie spoke up first. "X-men business?"

Logan shook his head, his eyes still on Rogue's face. "No. Private sector."

* * *

Thank you for reviewing! Please continue to leave a comment. I appreciate constructive remarks!

I know that this might seem like a different kind of idea with Rogue. And while I don't want anyone taking this chapter as me thinking she's out of her head for going to Magneto, I do think (and it was hinted at) that a personality-residue from Legacy remained within Rogue. And why wouldn't it? Her powers have always left a tinge of another's psyche. (Granted, in this case, the other psyche is actually her...sort of.) I do think that Legacy's personality played a role in her decisions, possibly even overshadowing Rogue's persona at times.

And, let's face it, her relationship with Remy has always been like a runaway emotional rollercoaster; she can only have so many tickets...

Unless she bought the fun pass... ;)


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

_**But it doesn't mean you ain't been on my mind**_

**America, Sister Golden Hair**

Reconnaissance was his specialty.

Well, after pilfering and philandering.

Which, kind of went hand in hand along with it.

It gave him a chance to stay in practice, to finesse the impenetrable, slip between barriers, keep his touch tempered. And, then there was the pilfering...

He allowed himself a worn smile and scrubbed his hands over tired eyes.

The drive had been shorter than he had imagined, taking only about six hours. But six hours on a bike wasn't the same as six hours spent slumping against the plush leather of the Blackbird. He rolled his shoulders and pressed his lower back further into the mattress. He'd arrived in Washington D.C. an hour before and had promptly rented a room for the indefinite future.

Business trip, he'd told the girl at the front desk.

She'd smiled at him, a cute little brunette with twinkling blue eyes and dimpled cheeks, and all he could think about was how much he wanted to get away from the way she was looking at him. She couldn't have been much older than twenty and experience told him that with a soft slide of his fingers against her knuckles or the inside of her wrist, she'd melt into a puddle.

He'd considered it, of course; he was, after all, by no means _attached. _He was a young, handsome, hot-blooded, _single _handsome man. Yeah, so handsome, he mentioned it twice. Besides, his ego had taken some massive hits as of late, and he needed to talk himself up. But, despite the fact that he was all of those things—_unattached, _namely—he couldn't quell the guilt welling up within him that he'd even _considered _her.

For all intents and purposes, he was available, single, _f__ree._ And yet, there was this invisible line tethering him to Rogue.

Of course the drive in itself, though a _needed,_ if not _welcomed_, distancing agent had done very little to slacken that tether. His mind had spent most of its time on her. He obsessed about her reaction to his disappearance. He wondered if she'd just shrug her shoulders and chalk it up to his unreliable personality, or, worse, not even notice his absence.

When that pleasant little thought popped into his already-questionable frame of mind, it had taken all of his determination not to swerve in front of a speeding Mack truck and head back to the Institute.

Part of him was glad to be away, thrilled even. It was change. Fresh. He hadn't had that in quite some time.

No. He was still paying for the sins of his past.

Granted, they were mighty hefty sins.

But he was busted.

When he thought, _convinced_ himself, that she would still be there, the penance was bearable. But as time slipped past, she remained distant—physically, emotionally—cowering behind some half-baked excuse that he made her lose control. She said she needed control, but that she was still with him, still focused on the endgame, on their destiny. And he believed her.

Because he needed to.

Because the reality was not bearable.

When he freed her from her lie and told her not to come to him until she was ready, it hurt.

And he knew that his penance had truly begun.

And he thought Antarctica had been hard.

He shook his head, allowed himself a humorless chuckle. "Too soon, Remy. Still too soon."

Kicking his feet to the floor, he groaned as his body protested. Nope, the blackbird would have been more comfortable. Rolling his shoulders and stretching his back, he padded over to the room's single table. He had dropped his backpack there in an unforgiving heap upon entering and making his way to the bed. Now, he flipped it to its front and unzipped the middle section. His cellphone clattered to the Formica. He stared at it like it was a snarling beast. His fingers reached for it before instinctively curling into his fist.

What if she hadn't called?

What if she had?

Was it normal, he wondered, for him to want and not want both of those scenarios?

He licked his lips, staring down the phone the way he might the latest villain of the week. He swept it into his palm, turned it on, and stared dumbly at the screen.

One missed call.

One text message.

Both Logan.

"Damn."

But he dialed anyway.

"_Bonjour, mon ami._ You called?"

"Yeah, I did. Where you at?"

"My hotel. Gatherin' my t'oughts."

"I ain't payin' ya to think."

Remy chuckled, "You couldn't afford me."

"You got some sort of plan?"

"Yeah. Not to get caught."

"Brilliant."

Remy grinned; he could practically see Logan roll his eyes. "I'm gon' take the tourist route first. See what I can see. Den, I got a call in for de prints."

"Blue prints?"

"_Ou__í__._"

"How're you-?"

Remy interrupted. "_Sssshhh_. No bread crumbs, 'member? You di'n't asked me t' help 'cause of my squeaky-clean record, right? I got dis."

There was a long pause. And for a moment, Remy was certain the Wolverine was second-guessing himself.

"Somet'in' wrong?" And the fear already bubbling beneath the facade of confidence began to fizz in between the cracks. "It ain't...Rogue?"

"No," it was rushed, and did little to make him feel better. "No, Gumbo, she's fine. Hardly noticed."

"Oh." The breath from that one syllable nearly cut off his oxygen. He swallowed and tried to refill his lungs. "Good."

"I just," Logan paused. "Just don't go gettin' sucked back into your old life."

"Don't worry. Indifferent ex-girlfriend trumps sociopathic ex-wife." It came out more bitter than he had planned.

Logan cleared his throat. "Just don't get caught. Find out about the mutants. How this whole thing is working and report back. Once we have the intel, we can decide what to do. This is big. And we gotta have good proof. If it's on the up and up, which I doubt, we'll turn the other way. If not, we'll need to plan it out as a team." He cleared his throat. "Can't believe I'm saying this."

"Don't apologize. Responsible role model looks good on you." He steadied his tone, but his stomach rolled with fear: she'd hardly noticed that he was gone. His mouth felt dry; he wondered if the minibar was stocked.

Logan made some noncommittal grunt and Remy took it that the conversation was over...at least until he had some sort of information. He tossed his phone onto the bed and stared at it, willing it to ring, willing her to miss him.

Deep within, an ugliness stirred. His hands fluttered to his gut, and he pressed them there as if trying to stop a slow leak. He breathed in and out, Lamaze style, and squeezed his eyes against the wretchedness growing inside him. He forced himself to think beyond the phone, beyond the need for her recognition...beyond her. It was not an easy thing. They had been intertwined for so long, one a part of the other, and now that they weren't, he found himself battling a myriad of identities.

He was still Remy LeBeau, sure, but who he was had split and splintered into a scattered disarray.

And without Rogue, he feared, he would lose the man he had been trying to become.

Instead of the noble X-Man, the man who worked to save his soul from the dark entrapment of a misinformed youth, Remy saw within himself the shadow of Death. He was a second-time Marauder, a disbanded thief, a traitor to the cause. The light that had grown within him, that had lifted him up and made him believe in goodness was once again dashed and broken and out of his reach.

Just like Rogue.

Just like the man he wished he was.

"Fuck it." It was forced, of course; he didn't truly feel that way. But he needed a dose of self-preservation or he wasn't going to be able to stop that thing moving within him. He stuck out his chin, swallowed, and let out a deep breath, "Fuck it." This time his voice sounded a little less forced and he felt the blackness within him begin to back down. He wasn't going to lose control of himself. Not ever again. Even if the light never came back, he would master the Apocalyptic problem buried within the confines of his soul.

The evil within dissipated for the time being and he sighed in relief. Slinging his backpack over his shoulder, he spared his phone a sideways glance before scooping it up and stuffing it into the front compartment. He needed to stay busy, to keep his mind focused on something other than the insecurities of his non-relationship. He had a job to do. He looked at his key card and allowed a tight smile at the message scribbled across the plastic in red permanent marker: _I get off at 10. Becky._

Perhaps he needed to work in some extra-curricular activities as well.

X

Sipping his iced tea, Remy couldn't help the slant of his mouth as he watched his mark rise and drop a few crumpled bills on the sticky tabletop. The unmistakeable sway of inebriation seemed to do little to impair the overall respectability of the military uniform and, in fact, earned some half-hearted salutes despite the late hour. When the uniform stumbled out into the street, Remy took a quick slurp of his tea, grimaced at the decidedly lacking flavor—he hadn't had a decent iced tea since moving north, but he was forever optimistic—and moseyed out the door himself, his fingers splaying in a slight wave to a few waitresses who had been trying to catch his eye since he arrived.

He scooted into the night air. It was hot, humid, the kind of night that made him think of bruised lips and a bead of sweat crawling lazily down a pale neck. He bit his lip and cleared his throat. Shaking the image from his mind, he quickened his pace at the sight of his mark nearing a curb with hand held high.

The cab slid to a stop and Remy nearly sprinted to the driver's side. He jerked the door open and slid into the backseat in synchrony with his mark.

"Oh!"

Remy looked up, a startled mask covering his face. "Oh, _je suis desole._ (I am sorry.) Pardon, me, ma'am." He managed a tight smile of apology. "I didn't see you."

She wasn't _entirely_ sloshed.

He chewed on his lip. Maybe tonight hadn't been as well thought out as he planned. He put a steadying hand on her shoulder and decided to improvise. "Ma'am?"

She licked her lips and shrugged him off before leaning back in the seat and closing her eyes. "Whatever. It's fine." She pressed fingertips into her temples before clearing her voice and barking her address at the cabby. She tipped her chin at him before instructing, "You'd better give him yours too. If you're closer, it makes sense for him to drop you off first."

Remy's lips quirked upward and he managed a little shrug. "I'm the other way."

"Story of my life," she snorted.

"Pardon?"

She leaned back in her seat, and studied him with big brown eyes. Now he noticed the dried pools of mascara under each eye. Her glassy-eyed expression made him regret the night almost immediately, but again, he decided to wing it.

"Is something wrong, _chere_?"

She snorted, and swept at the bleached fringe hanging on either side of her face. It was a pretty face, Remy noticed, and if they had met under different circumstances, he might very well have been interested. He waited for her to answer. She didn't. He licked his lips and leaned back himself.

"You're handsome," she slurred, her intoxication loosening her tongue; Remy was sure she'd never say that if she were sober.

He shrugged and allowed a patient smile to grace his lips. "_Merci_. You are pretty."

She snorted at that and shook her head. "Not hardly."

He raised an eyebrow. "No, you are. Whoever you're crying over is an idiot."

A tight smile. "Thanks."

"You're welcome." He turned to look forward, but his peripheral vision was working overtime. He watched her watch him. She turned, looked out the window, before whipping back to his direction and clearing her throat.

"I'm Charlotte...er, Charlie."

He turned to her, his hand reaching out to grip hers. "Remy." He pulled it up and brushed his lips over her wrist. He felt her stiffen and he smiled up at her. "Nice to meet you." He released her hand quickly, not wanting to spook her. "And de idiot?"

There was a humorless chuckle. He knew that sound. It had been escaping his lips more than he'd care to admit. He fixed her with a truly empathetic look.

"Tom." Her lips curved down at the name. She shook it off and managed a flat smile.

He nodded. "Anna." Her brow knitted and he smiled equally tight. "Dat's my ex's name."

She shook her head. "I don't believe you. Look at you. You're like a Greek god or something." Eyes widened and she clapped her palm over her face before melting into the back of the cab. "Oh, I must be drunker than I thought!" She peeked out from between her fingers and shook her head. "I can't believe I said that."

He laughed, true and hearty, and shook his head. "It doesn't always end well for de Greek gods. Look at Hades. He didn't really get Persephone. He kidnapped her and tricked her into eating pomegranate seeds." He shook his head sadly. "If dat were all it took..."

She smiled. He decided she really was pretty.

"Dinner might go over better than pomegranate seeds."

He nodded. "Interestin'. I'll make a note of dat."

Her eyes crinkled a bit around the edges. "Glad to help."

Remy allowed the quiet to settle for a few beats before he tipped his chin toward her and stated nonchalantly, "You're in the military."

She let out a breath and smoothed her hands down the sides of her uniform. "Yes."

He watched her with his dark eyes. "You don't like it?"

Blowing out an unsteady breath, she hesitated. "No, mostly I do. Just, and I can't believe I'm saying this to someone I just met in the back of a cab, I've worked so hard to be tough. You know, to be considered equal to a man. No complaining. No time for frills. Straight forward, no-nonsense, all business. Sometimes, I feel like—well, tonight, anyway—I feel like I've forfeited my femininity."

"An' dat was dis Tom's complaint?"

She licked her lips; he could see the threat of tears lingering in her lower lashes. "Not in so many words."

"You took charge of the relationship."

"Yes."

"Nothin' wrong wit' a strong woman, _chere_." He felt his mind drift for a moment. "Personally, I like strong ones best. It's de needy ones what scare me to death."

"Unfortunately, Tom isn't of the same mind...or dick."

He couldn't stop his brows' upshot, or for that matter, the wicked grin that twisted across his lips to match the one on hers. "Good girl," he laughed, "dat's de strength talkin'."

She shook her head, but the grin was still pasted across her pretty face. "No, that was the whisky." The grin faded and she blew out a nervous breath, "This probably is, too." And before he had time to react, she crossed the mid-section and pushed her lips on top of his.

The act surprised him only a little. He was not shocked by it. In fact, he had considered the possibility of it, but, to be honest, he had thought it would take a little longer. He was glad it hadn't. And in the back of his brain, he thanked Tom for being an unmitigated ass.

X

For the better part of a month, he'd surveyed his options.

Using the information available from Logan's "borrowed" S.H.E.I.L.D. file, he'd managed to put names together with email addresses. Using an intricate technology sent to him from the Unified Thieves and Assassins Guilds—he'd called in a favor—he was able to tap into numerous emails, among other things. The emails were all in code. It had taken several late nights to break it. As a celebratory gesture, he'd decided to fore-go the software approach in favor of some tried and true face time.

The fact that it had turned to face-sucking time was yet another reason he preferred people over machines.

Charlotte "Charlie" Sommerfield was an army major, who, for all intents and purposes, was involved in a Special Operations unit known as X-Company. As unimaginative as its name was, it was a brave new idea in the military world. For years, mutants were thought of as volatile powder-kegs that needed to be captured and contained for the good of the powerless human population. X-Company was an experiment in human-mutant co-existence and co-habitation. The mutants were fighting for their country. The military provided training to hone their skills and an outlet with which to funnel their powers for the good of all humankind. In return, the mutants were treated with all the respect and rights of their flat-scan counterparts.

Or so the emails and hard-drives would like him to believe.

Remy, an insatiable realist when it came to things that sounded too good to be true, found the whole thing a little hard to swallow.

But, he wasn't thinking about it at the moment.

At least, not actively.

Charlie's lips were soft against his own and he rubbed a thumb across her cheek. She pulled back, her brown eyes heavy with alcohol and lust. She licked her lips, before swallowing and tilting her head to rest on the door behind her. "So..." Her voice was thick with promise.

He loved the way it filled his ears and caused his body to shiver in response. "So..." he repeated, his eyes dark and focused on her own.

She took an unsteady breath and twisted the knob. The door opened into a dimly lit foyer. She backed in, her fingers gripping his. He followed, kicking the door closed behind him and pausing to lock it. Her tanned skin was flushed and he watched appreciatively as her chest heaved up and down with each anxious breath. He crossed to where she stood at the base of a staircase, his arms instinctively wrapping about her and his hands tangling her bleached bob as he set his lips against hers once more.

The trek up the staircase was a blur of discarded clothes and wet kisses. Then they were naked and laughing at the shock of cold sheets against their skin. Remy sucked at her neck while his hands teased her nipples into round little cherries each atop a delightful pile of vanilla. He ran his tongue along them before returning to those soft lips and enjoying the faint taste of whisky with each little nip.

As he sank into her, there was only a momentary flash of green eyes before he shuddered and tangled his tongue against hers.

X

"Do you work with her?"

His fingers stilled on her back. "Pardon?"

Charlie looked up at him from where she rested on his bare chest, her fingers playing with the hair there. "Your ex. Do you work with her?"

He looked at her, his dark eyes betraying nothing. Finally, he sighed, let his fingers continue their soft caress. "Yeah, I do."

"That's painful."

He allowed himself a breathy chuckle before admitting, "Yeah."

"What happened?"

He shook his head. "Rather not say."

She leaned up on her elbow and favored him with a disapproving look. "_I _told you about Tom."

"Yes, an' he's a rat bastard," Remy agreed. "It's...complicated...wit' Anna."

"Oh, so it's all your fault, then?"

He looked at her, and pursed his lips. "Partly, yeah."

"I can't believe you did anything that bad...You didn't sleep with her mother or anything trashy like that, did you?"

An eyebrow disappeared into the mop of brown across his forehead. "No. I di'n't." He cleared his throat and added, "Despite popular opinion."

"What was that?"

"Nut'in'."

"Uh-huh," she eyed him warily. "What did you do?"

"Let's just say I screwed up an' been tryin' t' make it up t' her ever since."

"It's not working?"

"No," he touched the tip of her nose with a finger before offering her a watery smile. "No, she's found someone else."

She nodded her understanding. "Another Greek god?"

He winked at her. "Dere's only so many of us to go 'round, _ch__é__re._"

"So, what then? How does he compare?"

"He's older."

She got a knowing glint in her eye. "Oh, sugar daddy, huh?"

He shook his head. "Nah, Anna...she's not like dat."

"Oh, then it's daddy-issues."

"More like gran'-daddy-issues." It was out before he could even think. She must have heard the bitterness creep into his voice because she wrinkled her brow in question. "The man's like eighty." His voice held the teeniest bit of frustration.

She smiled and kissed him on the mouth. "Well, no offense, but I don't think there's an eighty-year-old alive that can hold a candle to you."

A lopsided grin slid across his face and he pulled her down for another kiss.

X

Remy kissed Charlie at her door and promised to see her that night. She nipped at his lower lip before he squeezed her breast and parted from her quickly.

"Tonight!" he called over his shoulder and climbed into a cab.

He ran his fingers over his lips.

Undercover work was always difficult. It was a thin line between truth and deceit. Paper thin. One wrong move and the line could leave a pretty nasty cut. The real art was finding a way to keep the deceit from being detected. It was hard to keep track of lies. Eventually they buried those that told them. He knew that firsthand. The trick was to tell the truth whenever it was possible. The truth was always constant. One needn't worry about dotting i's and crossing t's. The truth did it for them. So, he had learned from his multitudes of mistakes. Honesty really was the best policy.

Or, at least some variant of it.

He tipped the cabby and moseyed into his hotel. Becky winked at him as he grabbed a complimentary bagel and cream cheese container. He winked back.

His room was in a disarray. If it hadn't looked like that when he'd left, he would have been sure he'd been ransacked.

Sliding into the chair at his little table, he peeled back the paper on his cream cheese and spread it heavily across his bagel. He stuffed a bite into his mouth and sighed against the taste. Taking his phone from his jacket pocket, he turned it on.

He'd been very honest with Charlie. About his feelings. About Rogue. The bitterness in his voice conceded his exasperation and self-blame for the dissolution of his relationship. He tapped at the key pad and pinched the bridge of his nose. He'd given her no true testimony of his actions, just the honest understanding that he knew he'd screwed up.

"Yeah?" Logan's gruff voice did little to dampen Remy's spirits.

And she'd bought into him hook-line-and-sinker.

He couldn't keep the grin from leaking into his voice.

"I'm in."

* * *

Thanks to all of you who reviewed. I'd love to read some more!

What?! Remy what?! I know. I'm just as shocked and horrifed.

Really, there are no words...except...

If every action has a reaction...the question then becomes...what will the reaction to this be?

...and who will be the one reacting?

Thanks for reading!


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